Frank walked to the window and looked out at Westbeth, the famous artists' community. He had a view of the very room where Diane Arbus had slashed her wrists in '71.
At least that was what the real estate broker, sensing a hooked fish, had said. As if it would make this dive more appealing to be able to look out over the space where a very weird photographer had offed herself.
Then he shifted his gaze and scanned for men in black overcoats.
Not a single Matrix killer with slick, curly blond hair. He closed the curtain.
Frank then returned to the delivery he'd just received and, swollen with joy, lifted out the dark green box of Dom Perignon champagne.
He peeled off the note.
Dear Frank. Thinking of you. We'll share this soon! Really looking forward to Tuesday. I'll call you! XOXO, Gabriela.
He felt like he'd just scratched off the last number in Lotto and won a million dollars. He laughed out loud with pleasure.
Champagne! And he didn't think this was the cheap stuff, either.
He pictured Gabby's slim waist, her high, spherical breasts, the thick, straight auburn hair that she seemed to wear up in buns or ponytails most of the time. But occasionally she wore it down, which Frank loved.
God, was she pretty.
He recalled seeing her in a yellow swimsuit, sunbathing in Central Park. He believed he'd seen a scar on her belly. He wondered if it was a C-section or from an accident.
He wondered how he could find out.
Ask her, dummy.
Their coffee on Friday had been great. He must've passed a test of sorts, because look at this! He regarded the green box again. Reread the note. Then again, and once more.
Hell, Dom Perignon. He Googled.
Shit! A hundred fifty bucks!
Frank began to fantasize about when she came over on Tuesday. He'd have the place spick-and-span.
Vacuumed. And air-freshened; he sniffed and something smelled off.
Clean sheets on the bed...
Frank glanced at his watch. Well, he'd have to think about their date later. Now it was time for the fight.
Time for death, time for blood.
His palms began to sweat.
In his musty bedroom Frank Walsh emptied his pockets onto his dresser: forty-three dollars in crumpled bills, coins, receipts, a Necco Wafer wrapper, a Kit Kat wrapper, and the knife he always carried, a two-inch Swiss Army model with magnifier, toothpick and scissors.
He opened the closet door. Inside were dozens of shoes, one suit, four combat jackets and a hat rack with a single piece of headgear, a Greek fisherman cap. This he grabbed and pulled over his ruddy hair. He sat down in his creaky office chair and booted up his computer, kicking his shoes off. Squinting at the computer screen, Frank moused up the volume and music trilled, otherworldly music from a different dimension.
The familiar logo filled the screen, giving him comfort, like seeing the Now Entering sign of your hometown.
The Clans of Gravias Major
The Number One Online Role Playing Game
Frank clicked on Resume Game and motioned to life his avatar, a lean, handsome warrior whose appearance was similar to its owner in hair color only. He directed this figure to the armory to select the Daratian knife from his arsenal of weapons. Frank then flew the avatar, via a winged horse, into Prospecia Woods, where he would meet and fight an avatar manned by a young player in Taiwan.
They'd scheduled this one-on-one battle to settle a dispute between their respective clans, as the rules of the game allowed.
A few moments later he arrived at the Judgment Circle, which was already surrounded by several dozen avatars from both clans. The people behind those creatures--none of whom Frank had ever met in person, or even had a real conversation with--directed the warriors and wizards to applaud and leap up and down, offering cries of support. The other side, of course, did the same, encouraging their warrior.
After a moment the opposing avatar appeared, a bizarre-looking creature with a tentacle for a tail. He surveyed the fighting circle and stepped over the barrier.
Frank instructed his avatar to do the same. The two animated creations faced each other.
He had a brief memory of Mr. Overcoat, but it faded quickly. He had a knife fight to win. He directed his avatar to crouch and, with the wicked blade forward, he advanced on his opponent, who dropped into a defensive position as his snaky face surveyed his enemy.
Frank feinted to the side and then leapt forward, knife swinging like an airplane propeller, and he clung to his strategy--pretending he was defending Gabby from being raped by the creature.
Blood flew and screams rose harrowingly, shooting from the Bose speakers, a month's pay.
Frank advanced again.
Stalking, attacking, killing...
III
CHAPTER 20
10:00 P.M., SATURDAY
10 HOURS, 30 MINUTES EARLIER
HAL. SORRY TO RUIN YOUR SATURDAY NIGHT."
"Never a problem to see you, Pete."
The men pumped hands vigorously. Both right wrists, coincidentally, were encircled by gold bracelets. One tasteful, one not.
"Well, sit down," said Peter Karpankov, gesturing toward a chair across from the ornate but well-worn antique table he used for a desk, deep mahogany. "Have a seat. Do you want a drink? You want some whisky? Is that your drink? You want something else?"
"Naw, but thanks." Hal Dixon, body a bit stocky, suit a bit rumpled, but shirt pressed, even now at this hour of the evening.
They were on the top, the third floor, of the ancient building on Tenth Avenue that housed Karpankov's company.
The Russian poured some vodka and sipped it warm. He lifted his eyebrow. "You sure?"
"Naw, really, Pete. I mean, you're right, yeah, I like whisky but nothing for me. The wife smells it on my breath I go home and it's all hell to pay. I can have a drink with her but not a drink before her. You know how it is."
"Ah, women, women, women..." The lean man chuckled. He looked so much like Vladimir Putin that Dixon had wondered if he was somehow related to the Russian president. He had no accent but sometimes you imagined he did.
There was a rumble from the corner and Karpankov's large dog--whose breed Dixon didn't recognize--stretched and looked over the visitor slowly. Not exactly hostile, not exactly friendly. He flopped back down on his cushion and sighed. The thing had to weigh 150 pounds. The dog's brown eyes settled on Dixon and would not let go. Black-and-gray fur maybe naturally spiky, maybe rising, as in hackles.
As in just before the attack.
"He's a good boy," Karpankov said affectionately.
"Big," Dixon said.
"Things're going good for you, I hear." Karpankov looked impressed. "The new shopping mall project."
"Sure," Dixon said. And kept his eyes locked with the Russian's. "We're making money hand over fist, even though I have no idea what the fuck that expression means."
Karpankov blinked. Then laughed. "Ha, that's true. I never thought about it. 'Hand over fist.' What's that mean? People are careless, what they say. Cliches, lazy speaking. Makes you sick, sometimes."
"Sick."
The view from Karpankov's office was of the Hudson River. Now, at night, the water was just a strip of black. What ebbed and flowed were lights, yellow, red, green, white, easing north and easing south.
Karpankov disconnected and then turned to Dixon, who regarded the man's eyes for as long as he could.
Those are some very weird pupils, he thought, looking away. Not fifty shades of gray. Two.
The Russian said, "I'm thinking we should talk about that project in Newark. You and me."
A joyous drumbeat tickled Dixon's gut. He said enthusiastically, "That's going to be a ball buster, Pete. Eight figures, easy. Mid eight figures." Then to himself: Calm the fuck down. You're talking like a tween gushing about Bieber.
"Eight, yeah, we're figuring."
"You'll clean up with it," Dixon said.
&
nbsp; This was a joke because part of the project involved leases to a large dry-cleaning outfit. Dixon had been dying to participate.
Karpankov didn't seem to get the play on words, though.
Dixon kept his face still--you had to when dealing with people like Karpankov--but his pleasure was growing by the second. He'd been hoping for a year that Karpankov would bring him in on some project, any project. But Newark? Jesus. That was Boardwalk. That was Park Place.
"But I need a favor, Hal."
For a piece of Newark, he'd definitely help Karpankov out. Whatever the task. He sat forward, frowning with pleasant anticipation.
"Anything."
But details of the carrot, or stick, were delayed.
Karpankov's phone rang and he said a polite, "Excuse me."
"Go right ahead." Dixon looked at the dog; the dog looked back. Dixon was the first to disengage.
He lifted one shoulder then the other, adjusting his gray suit jacket. It was tight and the cloth was thin wool, too thin for the day's chill. He'd realized this as soon as he'd left the house but didn't want to go back for his overcoat. The wife. His shirt was a pastel shade of blue that some people probably thought was too gaudy. Dixon didn't care. He wore bright shirts; it was his trademark. Yesterday pink, today blue. Tomorrow he'd wear yellow. The canary yellow. It was his favorite. And he always wore it on Sunday.
The Russian ended his call. Then, as always happened in discussions between men, Dixon knew, the mood changed, unmistakably, and it was time for serious horse trading. Karpankov put his fingers together, like he'd buried the pleasantries and tepeed dirt over their grave. "Now, I'm aware of something."
"Okay."
Karpankov often said that. He was aware of something.
"Have you ever heard of the October List?"
"Not familiar. Nope. What is it?"
"I'm not exactly sure. But I do know this: It's a list of names of some people who're powerful. And dangerous. About thirty, maybe a few more. I've heard some of 'em I might've done business with in the past."
"October List. Why's it called that?"
A shrug. "Nobody I've talked to knows. A mystery. It could mean all hell's going to break loose in October."
"Next month."
"Next month. Or maybe it's that something big happened last October and there're plans in place as a result. Now, Hal, I want that list. I need the list. But I can't have my people do it--'cause I may have a connection. Those people I've worked with. You don't have any connection."
Because I'm smaller fucking potatoes, Dixon thought. But that didn't bother him. He nodded eagerly, like a dog. Well, a normal dog, not the big fucker in the corner.
The Russian continued, "Now, here's the thing. I heard from Henry--you know Henry, my facilitator?"
"Right. I know Henry. Good man."
"He is, yes. He heard that there's a woman lives in the city has the list or knows where it is. You get the list from her, then you and me, we'll go half and half on the Newark project."
"Fifty percent?" Dixon blurted. "That's very generous, Pete."
The man waved off the gratitude. "This woman's name is Gabriela McKenzie. She was the office manager of the prick who kept the list--he's skipped town."
"You have her address?"
"Upper West Side but she's not there." Karpankov tepeed his fingers. He leaned forward. "She and some guy she's with're keeping low, but my sources say they're in the city somewhere. His name's Reardon. My people tell me they'll find out their location tonight or tomorrow and let me know." His voice lowered further, and he put his hands flat on the table. "Hal, I heard you were the go-to man when it came to life in the streets, you know what I mean? Life in the trenches."
"I try," Dixon said modestly. "I know my way around."
Karpankov cleared his throat. His eyes slid away to a model car on his desk, one of the six Fords, an Edsel. "And you'd do whatever you need to, to get the list? You have no problem with that, do you? Even with this person being a woman. And innocent."
"Not a problem at all." Dixon meant this, though he didn't add he already found the task a turn-on.
"She's going to be skittish."
"Girls get that way. Especially depending on the time of month."
Karpankov smiled. "I mean, she'll be cautious. I'm not the only one who wants the list. There're some other people after it."
"Sure, you get me her location, and I'll take care of it." Dixon frowned as he considered the job. "So she knows people are looking for her?"
"That's right."
"You know one thing I've done works pretty good especially with the ladies? I tell 'em I'm like a deacon in a church. It gets their guard down. I even carry a Bible around with me." He fished the little black book out of his breast pocket.
"Smart, Hal."
The man beamed. "That'll let me get up close. Then I pull out my piece and get her into my car. Take her to one of the construction sites, and go to work on her. She'll tell me where the list is. And after? We're pouring concrete Monday at the shopping center. They'll never find the body."
"Good."
"And the guy with her? He connected?"
"No, just some businessman she's sleeping with, I think. I don't care about him. But..." A third tepee.
"I'll take care of him too. Probably better just to shoot him."
An approving nod from the Russian. "I'll call you as soon as my people find her."
The men rose and shook hands again, even more energetically this time, and the gold links clinked dully. Seeing Dixon grip his master's hand so fervently, the dog stood. Dixon released and stepped back immediately.
"It's okay," Karpankov said. "He likes you."
Yeah, Dixon thought, for a main course. He smiled at the dog, who was content to stand and stare.
In five minutes Hal Dixon was outside on the cool, windswept street, tugging his light suit around him. He was relaxing now that he was away from organized crime overlord Peter Karpankov and Godzilla. He began down the street with a jaunty bounce, wondering who he could sell the October List to once he made his own copy.
CHAPTER 19
8:30 P.M., SATURDAY
1 HOUR, 30 MINUTES EARLIER
HORRIBLE," GABRIELA WHISPERED, HER TEETH SET CLOSE.
She was quivering. Eyes closed, breathing heavily. "How could he do that?" In the back of the taxi she leaned into Daniel and he put his arm around her shoulders. She wiped her eyes. "How could somebody do something so despicable?" Looking at the CVS pharmacy plastic bag at their feet, Gabriela eased closer yet and he tightened his grip. He was strong. The nice suits he wore, the thick yet draping cloth, largely concealed his physique, but one touch of his arm left no doubt he was in good shape.
She thought again about meeting him Friday, yesterday.
And what had transpired.
Felt a low pop within her, at the memory of Daniel, so very close, wiping the moisture from her forehead--then, with the same handkerchief, from his.
Was it just twenty-four hours ago? It seemed ages.
The ping again, lower, warmer, pulsing. But she pushed the thought away. Now was hardly the time.
Sarah...
A half hour earlier their taxi had stopped at his loft in TriBeCa, and he'd picked up a gym bag containing toiletries and a change of clothing. They were now on the way to her apartment so she could do the same--and, most important, collect the file folders.
She told him, "The documents might not have anything helpful but they're all we've got to save Sarah's life. I'm grasping at straws at this point."
Now it was Daniel's gaze that settled on the plastic bag, crumpled like a tiny pale body. Despite what they'd been through, he had remained the epitome of calm--until, in that disgusting alley, he'd seen what tumbled from the sack. He'd jerked back, a more violent reaction than hers.
He'd hissed, "Jesus..."
The shock was gone but in its place was a surfeit of anger and, perhaps, resolve.
"Why did you
want to keep it?" she asked.
When they'd been in the alley Gabriela had flung the bag away fast, as if it were coated in acid. But Daniel, using his elegant silk handkerchief, had collected the sack, along with its contents.
He now said, "Evidence. There'll be DNA on it"--a nod toward the bag--"maybe even Joseph's fingerprints... if he got careless."
"Sure. I hadn't thought about that. I was emotional."
"Pretty understandable under the circumstances."
They now drove in silence. When the cab reached Central Park and was nearing her apartment she glanced at the driver to see if he was listening but he was on the mobile speaking in some Middle Eastern language, lost in his conversation. She whispered to Daniel, "The police'll be watching. Joseph could be too."
So she directed the driver to the street one block north, behind the apartment building. The yellow cab parked on a dark side street. "I'll just be a few minutes," she told the driver.
But the waiting clock on the cab meter was running and he couldn't have cared less what his passengers were up to, what secret missions loomed. He resumed his staccato conversation.
Gabriela slipped from the cab and, walking close to the walls of the adjacent buildings, as if spies were after her, made her way to the service door of her apartment. The loading dock wasn't locked but the door leading into the basement was. Her front door key, however, let her in.
In five minutes she was in her apartment, which she kept dark. Working mostly by feel, she found and stuffed clothing and the business files she wanted into her nylon gym bag and then looked out of the door carefully, checking to make sure there were no neighbors or, of more concern, NYPD officers lurking in the halls. But no one was present.
She locked the door behind her.
Outside once more, she slipped quickly into the backseat and the driver eased away from the curb.
Daniel pressed her knee.
After several blocks: "Sarah," she said, a plaintive musing. "I wonder what she's doing now, what's going through her mind."
"Don't think about that," Daniel whispered. She felt the enveloping sense of warmth as his arm encircled her shoulders again.
Winding through Saturday-evening traffic, which slowed with congestion around Lincoln Center, the cabbie steered south and east through Midtown. In ten minutes they were at the Waldorf Astoria. Daniel paid the driver and they stepped out onto the sidewalk on Park Avenue. Using a napkin again, he took the plastic bag, with its sick contents, and stuffed it into his gym bag.